


Eggshells

by kangamangus (orphan_account)



Series: All Time is All Time (Klaus/Dave) [5]
Category: The Umbrella Academy (TV)
Genre: Caretaking, Coughing, Fever, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Love, M/M, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Sickfic, Sneezing, Vietnam War, War
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-02
Updated: 2019-04-02
Packaged: 2020-01-01 04:09:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,702
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18328346
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/kangamangus
Summary: Klaus walks on eggshells. Dave gets sick.Klaus realizes he has no idea what he's doing.





	Eggshells

**Author's Note:**

> The other day I was thinking how Klaus might navigate the uncertain territory that comes with a newly serious relationship, since he has never been in one before. Hence, this fic, in which Klaus tries hard to be a good partner/caretaker despite being somewhat clueless. 
> 
> Warnings for references to drug use, withdrawal, and PTSD due to the war.

Klaus has never been one to walk on eggshells — not successfully, at least, though he’s never had much of a reason to try. He’s spent most of his teen years and all of his adulthood viewed as a deadbeat, a mooch, distrustful and easily dismissed in the eyes of anyone who has managed to stand on their own two feet successfully for a prolonged period of time. And here’s the way he looks at it: if he’s going to be seen as obnoxious and then discounted in turn, why censor himself? 

So this is unfamiliar: a new self-consciousness that settles over him in the wake of what happened a few nights prior — that quick dip back into old habits, the graceless escape on a bathroom floor that, admittedly, wasn’t one of his finer moments (though not one of his worst, either — not by a long shot). 

That night was different from Klaus’ prior relapses for one reason only: Dave, who had been scared and hurt, who had looked at Klaus like he had broken his heart, and yet still, with a few words, had managed to accept his pain; Dave, who had normalized his struggle in a way that that caught him so off guard, it made him _want_ to get clean, if only to think about what he said with a fully functioning mind. 

Despite seeing the worst of Klaus, Dave still sat with him through every difficult moment back toward sobriety — every shout, every plead, every whimper. When it was over and they were both exhausted and emotionally worn down, Klaus told Dave about his ghosts — _really_ told him, this time, clear-headed enough to explain — and Dave had remained with him even then, holding him, believing every single horrific detail without so much as a pause. 

Then Dave told Klaus about his own ghosts, the wartime apparitions that invade his mind when everything is quiet and still, the way he falls asleep to the sound of exploring artillery shells and wakes in the morning to screaming. Dave's ghosts may not be literal, but they haunt him all the same, a parallel that made Klaus feel, for the first time in all his years of harboring the weight of his ability, a sense of mutual understanding. 

After, Klaus had slept through the night without any nightmares, and woke up to silence, free of ghosts. 

Now with a sober mind and fewer horrors invading his consciousness, Klaus comes to a conclusion that bothers him more than he’d like to admit: he almost screwed this up. For once, he has something worth keeping, someone who is willing to put up with his shit, and, losing to the pull of escape, he nearly pushed that away. He isn’t exactly new to the concept of fucking up, but he _is_ new to caring about it, and he has no idea how to navigate this unfamiliar territory. 

So eggshells it is. 

He tries to tone down his usually boisterous behavior — holds back from his over-the-top flirting, stops pestering Dave on a near-constant basis, tries to be a little less invasive with his personal space. It isn’t easy, especially not against the prolonged boredom of sitting at base with absolutely nothing to do until the next call to the field, but he distracts himself with whatever he can. He spends a lot of time playing with cards with Cody and José, and even more time playing pranks on the new recruits. 

Over the days that Klaus attempts to rein himself in, a virus spreads through base, sending soldiers shuffling around with sniffles that quickly become fevers. Which is likely why, when Klaus merely smiles at Dave over a hand of poker one evening, rather than engaging him in a superfluous flirtation, Dave walks over to him and, without a word, places a hand on his forehead. 

Klaus, amused, has to bite back back his teasing, _Am I hot, Dave?_ Instead, he asks simply, “What?” 

“Are you sick?” Dave looks concerned, that expression becoming all too common on him. 

“I feel great, actually,” Klaus replies. “Why? Do I look sick?” He directs his attention to Carl, his current poker partner, a young recruit who Klaus has temporarily accepted as his own protégé. It’s easier to pass the time when he’s constantly hassling the kid in the manner of a drill sergeant gone rogue. 

Carl shakes his head. “Not to me.” 

Dave drops his hand. 

“See? I’m trucking along,” Klaus looks down at his cards with an exaggerated exhale. “Except when it comes to this hand…looks like I’ll be losing my shirt after this one.” 

Carl’s eyes widen and he looks back and forth between Dave and Klaus with alarm. “Um,” he mumbles finally directing his attention to Dave. “This isn’t strip poker.” 

“Says you!” Klaus exclaims. 

“You might feel fine now, but I think you’re coming down with whatever's got half the squad down for the count,” Dave says, though he seems less sure now that he is observing Klaus in a more natural state of existence. “You stopped asking me for my biscuits again.” 

That had been Dave’s tip-off back when Klaus was actually sick — the subtle derailing of routine. 

“They’ve been so stale lately,” Klaus complains. It isn't a lie, they _are_ stale, but that’s par for the course. The meals on base have always been terrible. Klaus only pesters Dave for his food as a means of expressing interest in him, a way of placing himself in the forefront of his attention, rather than out of any real love for breakfast biscuits. 

But when Dave sighs and walks back to his cot to kick off his boots and turn in for the night, earlier than usual, Klaus adds, sincerely, “I feel fine, promise.” 

Dave doesn’t seem satisfied with that answer, but he doesn’t argue. Klaus gets the impression that he’s walking on eggshells, too. 

He turns back to Carl, tosses his cards onto the table in a dramatic heap, and yells, “Fold! There goes my shirt!” 

Dave falls asleep before lights out. 

In the morning, Klaus awakens to the sound of a muffled sneeze. He turns over and curls back into himself, mumbling a barely audible, “Gesundheit." He's nearly back to dozing when he hears another muffled sneeze, this time followed up by a cough. 

He sits up and rubs his eyes until he feels somewhat coherent, then asks, “Alright, who needs me to run to Med?” 

Dave’s sitting up too, looking bleary from interrupted sleep, and Klaus is about to comment on the rousing capabilities of a mere sneeze, when Dave ducks his head and shudders his way through what is, unmistakably, another sneeze, albeit much more contained this time. 

“Oh no,” Klaus murmurs, detangling himself from his sheets. “Was that you?” 

It’s a silly question, because the answer is obvious, but Dave nods anyway. As Klaus shoves off his cot and makes his way to him, he takes inventory of Dave’s condition: pale skin, hair damp and clinging to his forehead, a flush in his cheeks, and exhaustion so apparent, Klaus has to fight a sudden impulse to force him right back to sleep. 

“Guess it was me getting sick,” Dave says without fanfare, upfront in his misery. 

Klaus reaches out to touch his forehead, falters, then drops his hand before making contact. 

“Yeah, you don’t want this,” Dave says, misinterpreting the action. He tries to clear his throat before speaking again. “Better keep your distance.” 

“I don’t care about that.” Klaus has never been one to squirm in the face of germs — his life has been far from sanitary and that hasn’t changed since his venture back in time. He spends as much time in mud pits as he does on base, these days. “I’m trying to give you space.” 

Dave’s watery, confused expression is a lot more endearing than it should be. “Why?” 

“I figured you could use a break,” Klaus replies with a loose half-shrug. “Thought I’d try some on selflessness for a change. It looks good on me, doesn’t it?” He indicates his bare torso with a sweep of his hand, as though his selflessness is evident in his lack of a shirt. 

Dave makes a sound that snags in his throat and rattles into a cough. Once he catches his breath, he takes Klaus’ hand and tugs him to the bed. Klaus allows himself to be pulled downward, reveling in the contact, realizing he missed Dave’s casual affection. 

“I don’t need a break,” Dave tells him with more earnestness than a sick man should be able to muster. He brings Klaus’ hand to his forehead and guides his palm against his skin. Klaus can feel the heat of a fever, the dampness of sweat. “I need you to be yourself.” 

Klaus doesn’t have time to indulge in his usual wonder at Dave’s effortless way of knowing exactly what Klaus wants — _needs_ — to hear. Dave drops Klaus’ hand so he can bring his own to his face, shielding it from view as he jerks backward, then off toward the side, to sneeze again. 

“We’re all awake now,” one of the newer recruits mutters as he stands and begins to make his bed with more attitude than should be reasonably possible. The others soon follow, grumbling as they fall into the morning routine. 

“Keep it up!” Klaus calls out. “It’s gonna suck when it’s you, Leroy!” 

He turns back as he feels Dave move to get up. “Where do you think you’re going?” he asks, kneeling on the mattress so he can place his hands on Dave’s shoulders and lightly push him back down. 

“I can’t lie here all day,” Dave tells him, though he is passive under Klaus' touch. 

Klaus clicks his tongue. “You said I need to be myself, right?” 

A pause, then Dave allows, "I did say that." 

“Well, right now _myself_ says to stay in bed so I can take care of you.” When Dave looks conflicted, glancing toward the straggling soldiers who have yet to leave the tent, Klaus places a hand on his fever-bright cheek and says, quietly, “Please.” Dave is always taking care of him; it's his turn now — an opportunity to atone for his mistakes. 

Dave, looking into Klaus' entreating expression, relents immediately. “Okay. I’m staying.” He shifts into a more comfortable position, folding his pillow in half before lying back on it. 

As soon as Dave agrees, Klaus is on his feet, pulling on his clothes. “Good. Wait right here.” He quickly makes his bed in a way that skirts military standards, then rushes to the medical tent. 

It isn’t until he’s nearly back, two pills worth of some kind of fever reducer in hand, that Klaus realizes that medicine is the extent of his knowledge on how to care for a sick person. His answer to all of life’s problems, illness included, is drugs. He’s never had cause to think beyond that — none of his siblings would have ever even entertained the thought of enlisting him as a caretaker, when Klaus could barely take care of himself — and he can’t remember the last time anyone even looked at him sympathetically, let alone pulled out the stops when he’s been sick. 

Except, Dave, of course. 

But Dave hadn’t been able to do much when they were out in the field, Klaus sweating out his fever crouched in mud and laden with gear. He could only stay by his side, wholly present and concerned, checking on him whenever he could. It had been all Klaus needed at the time, but looking back now, it offered no guidance as to what he should do in this situation. 

He runs through a mental list of things that might help: blankets are a given. Liquids, those are probably important too. He supposes he can leave out the tie-downs that normally help him through a withdrawal-induced fever, as kinky as those might be. 

It’s isn’t a big list, but it’s a start. 

He returns to find Dave sitting up in bed in the midst of a coughing fit. Klaus gets some water water and sits beside him, rubbing his back until he can take the medicine and wash it down. 

“Thanks,” Dave croaks, his voice battered by the fit. “Ugh, I’m hot.” He kicks his sheets off of himself, but Klaus reaches over and pulls them back over him. 

“You need covers.” Then, an epiphany: “I’ll get you mine, too.” 

“It’s a hundred degrees in here,” Dave protests. 

That's fair; Vietnam is a humid country and their tent, having no modern conveniences, offers no relief from the heat. Still, Klaus knows this much: “Fevers screw with your body temperature.” He retrieves his covers and returns to tuck them all around Dave. “Believe me, I know.” 

“It’s not…” His voice wavers, then gives way to a sneeze. "...the fever, it's —" he tries to continue, but has to break off again as his words escalate into a rush of two sneezes that nearly overlap each other. 

“Bless you. It sounds like your nose has an opinion, too.” Not that Klaus allows it to have a vote. The covers stay. 

Dave doesn't reply beyond a thickly congested, "Thanks," looking too dazed by that eruption to say much more. He rubs his nose and sniffles, passing through a set of uncomfortable expressions that suggest he might need to sneeze again, and when that doesn't happen, he sniffs once more, hard. 

“Shit," Klaus breathes, realizing what Dave needs, something that probably should have occurred to him long before this moment. "Here.” Without fully thinking the plan through, Klaus pulls off his shirt and holds it out to Dave. 

“What’s that for?” Dave asks, now stuffy on top of hoarse, his consonants struggling for enunciation. 

“Tissue?” Klaus suggests with a rise in his tone that suggests that, yeah, okay, maybe there are better ways to go about this. But, it’s not like they have anything better to use immediately on hand — this is a war zone, not CVS. 

“Klaus…” Dave starts, but he trails off and takes the shirt. He doesn’t use it, though, just places it in his lap, carefully, like it’s something precious. 

Klaus reaches for his forehead, checking to see if the fever has broken yet. "You still feel warm." 

“I only took the medicine a few minutes ago,” Dave says slowly, carefully. 

“It could’ve been extra strength,” Klaus suggests, wondering if the 'extra strength' version of Tylenol had been invented by 1968. 

Dave huffs out a half-cough, half-laugh. 

Klaus is still for one whole minute, but when Dave sits up with another scattered series of coughs, which soon swell into a grating fit, Klaus reaches for him again and rubs his back. Then, after coughing subsides, he fluffs Dave’s pathetically thin pillow and urges him to lie back down. With that done, he adjusts the covers that Dave had tried to discreetly push away. 

“Klaus,” Dave says again. 

“Doing my best here,” Klaus tells him, refusing to relax. He circles the cot and moves through more anxious touches: Dave’s cheek, Dave’s chest, Dave’s arm — body parts that still burn too hot for his liking. 

Dave reaches out and takes his hand, just as he had earlier. “Sit. Please.” 

It takes him a moment, but Klaus sits. As soon as he stops his flurry of action, he feels mildly defeated, like he messed up something basic, something that everyone should know. He tries not to think of the trail of fuck-ups he always seems to leave behind him, but it’s impossible to avoid those thoughts when he’s sober. 

Dave pulls him close, taking him in his arms, and Klaus feels warm — too warm, maybe extra covers _were_ a bad idea — as he settles against him. 

“Thank you for taking care of me,” Dave says softly. 

And with those words, Klaus finds himself breathing a little easier, forgetting about eggshells and blankets and shirts-as-tissues. “I know I’m no Florence Nightingale,” he admits quietly. 

“You're perfect," Dave replies, open and earnest. 

Klaus closes his eyes and commits those words to memory. When Dave starts coughing again and moves to pull away, Klaus takes his hand and keeps him in place.

**Author's Note:**

> I want to believe that once Klaus really started opening up to Dave, Dave chased the ghosts away with the power of love and understanding.


End file.
